Spike my Hart
by Keltic Banshee
Summary: Woodstock. John Hart. Spike. Stags butting antlers doesn't quite cut it.


Spike my Hart

He shouldn't be here. Taking a deep breath, he squeezes past a group of hippies half-sitting half-lying on the floor, obviously way too high to notice what is going on around them. It's wet. It's muddy. The drinks suck. The drugs are pathetic. The music is nothing spectacular. He really shouldn't have come, not after how things ended last time. At least this time he's come prepared. He slides a hand to the hilt of his sword, feeling his body relax – it's always soothing to have his weapons handy.

He's already been here twice, and even for someone like him, a third visit to the same point in time is cutting it pretty fine. Too many of him around, and people may notice. Yet... there is something in the air. He can't quite put his finger on it, but there is _something_ about this festival – Woodstock, the locals call it – that keeps bringing him back to this backwater planet, even against his better judgement.

Of course, there are advantages to big crowds like this. A few of him roaming the fields is not likely to raise suspicions. Business can be conducted privately in plain sight – it's not like anyone is really paying attention. Staying away from the cons the other versions of himself are currently carrying out is relatively easy. And, for this day and age, the sex is not bad either. He shrugs, the still slightly odd weight of his new jacket settling around him, the pockets strangely empty now that he's delivered his merchandise.

He allows himself a smirk. Payment is safely tucked away in one of his various accounts, already jumping from place to place and time to time automatically. Untraceable, once more. He stretches his arms over his head. It's still the early hours of the night. He still has time to find willing company for the night, and he'll still be back for morning briefing, all innocent looks and polite smiles for whoever the Agency had chosen to assign to him this time. Not his fault if his partners kept having... unexplained accidents. If they hadn't started sticking their noses where they didn't belong... Maybe this time he'll get someone cute and interested in his side line of work. Like that Boeshane guy, or the Ilnarian he met a few weeks ago.

Something out of the corner of his eye brings him back to here and now. A familiar figure, yet moving with a strange gait. He turns his head, searching the crowd, and spots his prey a few metres away. The hair is different as well, bleached blond and cropped short, so unlike the style of the day. Standing out, just as he does in his mock uniform. As he elbows his way past a group of people, gets a couple of murderous looks thrown at him. Not that he cares. Not that he _needs_ to care.

It's been a while since the last time he met a future self. Well, technically, it's barely been hours – his past self, the one he handed his other parcel to, met him earlier in the day. But from where he's standing, it's been almost two years. He can't help but wonder what sweet deal he has arranged for himself. So he tails this strange other version of him, closing in on him as they approach the wooded area on the edge of the festival grounds.

The air is knocked out of him when someone smashes him face first against one of the tree trunks. He tries to reach for his sword, or one of the knifes secreted all over his person – it wouldn't be the first time he gets in a fight with another self – but his attacker is too close. One hand threads in his hair, pulling his head to the side, exposing his neck. Another one holds his left arm behind him. A chin settles heavy on his shoulder. A knife finally slides into his hand. A shiver runs down his spine, and his body relaxes in the hold. He's always enjoyed someone that could handle him, even if that someone is himself.

"Why are you following me?" The voice is not quite right, there are strange rhythms and melodies to it, but it still makes him shiver. He tries to move, to turn his head and take a better look at the shadow behind him, but is held firmly in place. "What are you, fan club from last century?" There is a sharp laugh right by his ear. His whole body tingles, a mixture of the impulse to free himself and get as far from here as possible and the waves of anticipation running through him. "You really should review your wardrobe..."

He snorts. Gets a tug at his hair for his troubles. Wonders, wants and needs in ways that take him by surprise. There is something different to the man behind him, but that's always the case when meeting future versions of oneself. He tries to kick the legs from under his captor, only to lose his footing.

"So, what have you got for me this time, old friend?" He barely recognizes his voice, all ragged and almost panting. "Information?" Lips trace the line of his neck, searching. "Artefacts?" Teeth follow. "Oh, come on, don't tell me I'm going to have to settle for just a shag..." Laughter, sarcastic and broken, explodes behind him.

"I think you have me confused with someone else." His whole body tenses, and not in a good way. "It's generally others that provide me with what I need." Barely a whisper in his ear. "And you are going to be a delicious start to this... festival." The grip on his hair relaxes a bit, and somehow he manages to spin around and bring his knee up to his opponent's stomach. The figure in front of him barely takes a step back, but that gives him enough room to bring out another knife and hold the two weapons in front of him.

He almost drops them as his 'other self' changes in front of his eyes. The smooth, bony cheekbones become more prominent. The forehead becomes ridged, the eyes turn cat-like yellow. The teeth grow into fangs. He smiles, realisation settling.

"A vampire!" He could laugh. Creatures of myth, the Agency had never managed to prove – or disprove – their existence. Tales had accompanied Humanity throughout the ages, but nothing definite had ever been found. "A sodding vampire!" His opponent gives him a sideways look, as if he weren't expecting such a reaction, and his features soften into his human persona again.

"Not _any_ vampire, if you don't mind." His thoughts are spinning, his body still shaking with a mixture of desire and self-preservation that makes him feel oh so alive. "Spike's the name. And I have a reputation to maintain, so I may just have to eat you." Spike licks his lips, a gesture both inviting and menacing. "I could drink you dry before you can even reach for any of those toys you are carrying..." There it is again, the promise of so much in that voice. "I'm sure you taste as delicious as you look."

"Careful not to bite more than you can chew, old man." Anger flares on Spike's face. "I am not easy prey." Spike lunges forward, but he's expecting it this time. Still, he ends up against the tree again, hands held over his head, a knee painfully pressing on his belly, and menacing fangs barely an inch away from his neck. "Although you may not have heard from me. Yet."

The hands on his wrists waiver for a second. He can see Spike's pupils dilate as the vampire licks his lips in anticipation and sniffs the air. He allows himself the beginning of a smile. Of course. Better-than-standard sense of smell and 51st century pheromones can be an interesting combination. At least it will probably guarantee he won't have to fight his way out of this. With a bit of luck, he'll have an interesting night. Shaking his head, Spike reverts back to his human form, icy eyes fixed on him.

When Spike closes the distance between them, part of him trembles with the thought that the vampire could quite easily tie him in a knot if he isn't careful. It feels strangely good, realizing that someone else is in charge and there is little he could do about it. Oddly safe in the weirdest, most dangerous possible way. He struggles to free his hands and finds himself being pinned even more effectively against the trunk. Rough bark digs into his back. The knee slides from his belly to his groin, and he hears himself moan, pain entwined with pleasure.

A hand on his shoulder pushes him roughly to the ground, arms still held above his head. There's a flicker of yellow in Spike's eyes, the rustle of clothes and zippers. Fingers thread through his hair again, jerking his head back. He's making needy noises he struggles to identify as his own. Damn this sodding backwater planet, damn this bloody festival, and damn fucking vampires that make him wish more days ended like this before the night even gets started.

When Spike's cock touches his lips, he welcomes it greedily. Not that he could do much else, the way he's being held down. His whole body throbs and wants. Spike looks down at him and _smiles_, one of those annoying smiles that says so much without a word, that makes it obvious that the vampire _knows_ just how much he's enjoying this. Spike moves slowly in and out of his mouth. He shivers, head to toe.

"Put the knives away." Not a question, not a request, but a very clear order that he finds himself following when his hands are freed. "Good boy." He half-expects the pat on his head that never comes. "Play nicely and I may not eat you, after all." He wants to reply, to shout that if he gets a really good fuck he probably wouldn't mind, but Spike gives him no chance.

He sneaks his hands up firm, familiar yet strange thighs tentatively, slowly pulling the jeans down. The skin feels cool under his touch, but not the icy cold of a dead creature. He taunts and offers. Before he knows it, he's being pulled to his feet, spun around and thrown against the tree again. A hand sneaks around him and undoes his trousers, pulling them down just enough; the other sneaks into his pocket and retrieves the lube – and he'd rather not know how the vampire knew where to look.

Teeth that still feel human hover over his neck, slicked fingers slide inside him and he's panting and wanting. He could scream in frustration when the vampire moulds his body to his, drapes an arm around his neck, almost but not quite cutting his air supply, and simply teases him.

"I won't beg for it." He aims for carefree and misses by a couple of solar systems. He moves his hips backwards, but Spike just moves with him. The arm around his throat presses a bit harder, and he leans into it.

"Oh yes, you will." A quite murmur in his ear. He curses. Nails rake down his back, under his clothes, and he shivers. Spike's lips latch onto his neck, teeth scratching skin. The thought that the vampire could kill him in an instant only adds to the thrill. "I know you will." He tries to resist the urge. Tries to free himself and turn the tables, but Spike has a bloody good grip on him, and a bit of non-human strength on his side as well.

"Fuck you." The words escape his lips. Nails on his chest, digging deep. He'll be bruised and scarred in the morning, but it's the best kind of morning sore he can imagine. A hand curls around his neglected cock and squeezes just the right way.

"I didn't hear you, _human_." Something in those words makes him shake like a leaf. Makes him want to surrender. He struggles for air. Can't think straight. Can't bloody think, for that matter.

"Fuck me!" Definitely not his voice. Spike slides inside him, pushing his shoulders down to get a better angle. Cries of pleasure mix with the occasional yelp when fingers grab too strongly or bark digs into the skin of his palms. Spike pushes them to the ground and wraps around him, teeth worrying his neck, one hand teasing his cock, pulling his balls and torturing him in the sweetest way.

He comes when Spike sinks his teeth into his shoulder, his mind short-circuiting for a second. Waves of pleasure run through his body as the vampire drinks from him, barely a trickle of blood. The high is like nothing he's ever felt before. The moments inside him become erratic; even when Spike sags and relaxes on top of him, he can't shake him. There is a moment of panic before Spike lets go of him, fangs turning into teeth again. Then the calm of the afterglow settles. Spike takes a deep breath and licks the wound. Blood stops flowing – not an artery then.

"You have spirit. And taste... different." He nods, not sure whether to take the words as a compliment. "Makes for an interesting shag." Slowly, and definitely much more coordinated than he could be at the moment, Spike detangles himself, stands up and rearranges his clothing. "I'll see you around, John Hart."

Without another word, the vampire walks away. Far in the distance, the faint glow of dawn is starting to show in the East. With a sigh, he struggles to his feet and does his best to recover some kind of composure.

He'll have to find the vampire next time he's on the planet.

Page 5 of 5


End file.
